To Build a Home
by goingmywaydoll
Summary: "The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that - a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest." -Debra Ginsberg / Nine months, nine moments, and the building of a family.


_Month One_

She waits a week to tell him.

She pretends everything is normal, that nothing has changed. She attends all council meetings as usual; she sits beside him on the throne, her back straight. She meets with Nostradamus four times to make sure.

It's on the fourth visit that he begins to get fed up.

"I can confirm that you are indeed with child, Your Majesty," he says, waiting for her next protestation. Mary feels the sudden urge to sit down. This is the fourth time he has said those words and with each time, she is more affected. She feels acutely aware of everything she does, the way she walks, the way she sleeps, what she eats. The thought of a child inside her—their child—sends her heart racing.

"And you're sure?"

"Just as I was when we first met," he says, nodding once. She breathes in deeply, sitting down in a chair beside her. "I assume you have not yet told Francis?"

Mary's gaze flickers to her lap.

"No," she says softly. "I don't want to get his hopes up."

"You needn't worry about that, Your Grace. You are most assuredly pregnant," he says. Mary looks back up at him, her eyes pleading.

"Is there anything I should do?" she asks, her voice small. It's all feeling real now, and though she knows the baby is barely a baby yet, she can feel him inside her. Their life is building inside her. She feels different, a future ahead that she had given up on.

"For now, just behave as you would usually, without riding or any other physical activity. Do not drink any wine, nor eat anything you would not normally eat. Tie your corsets less tightly than normal. Come to me with any questions or fears you may have."

"Thank you," she says. "And is the… Is it normal?"

"The vomiting? Yes, it is completely normal. It shall pass in several months and by then, you will show."

"I'll show," she says breathlessly as she begins to imagine the clear proof of their child and their future. Gone are the days where she would watch Lola enviously, the days where Catherine would look at her with disappointment, the days servants would whisper behind her back. Her lips turn upwards and her hand moves to cover her smile, to no avail. She stands, smiling gratefully to Nostradamus. "Don't tell anyone, not yet. I'd like to tell Francis myself."

"Of course, Your Grace," he says, bowing his head.

"Thank you," she says, her eyes meeting his. He nods once more and bows to her as she leaves, shutting the door softly behind her.

She doesn't know where to go now. She's not even sure where Francis is at the moment and part of her wants to find him as soon as possible. A week of wondering and worrying and trying to contain her hope has begun to get to her and she needs Francis to know that she's having his child.

She's having his child.

They're going to have a child. She still can't believe that there is a baby inside her finally, that they're going to get all they wanted. Tears begin to well in her eyes at the thought. She imagines the way Francis will spoil her rotten while she's pregnant, the way he'll look at their child when he's born, the way he'll give him everything he wants. She can see herself and Francis old and grey, watching their children with their own children. She can feel Francis's hand in hers, after years of marriage.

She so wishes to find Francis herself but the exhaustion she's been feeling these past weeks is settling in her bones. Nostradamus did say that she would need more rest now that she was living for two. So instead she calls her page to fetch the king and tell him to meet her in their chambers and that if he was busy, the page was to say it was of the utmost importance.

After the page is gone, she makes her way to their rooms and sits on their sunny window seat. Francis doesn't take long to get to her and it seems that within seconds he's bursting through the door.

"Mary!" he says, rushing to her, his eyes filled with worry. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, why would I not be?"

"The page said it was an emergency, I thought the worst," he says, taking her hands in his. "You're all right, then?"

"Yes, I'm perfectly all right," she laughs, her hand on his chest. Francis seems to deflate with relief, his whole posture softening.

"Now, you wanted to tell me something?" he says.

"Yes, come sit with me," she says, nodding. Francis does so, never taking her hands from his. Mary pauses and looks out the window. "Do you remember when your mother was pregnant with Charles?"

"Of course," he says without hesitation. "We asked her where he would be coming from."

"And she said from inside her."

"And we asked how he got in there."

"I don't think I've ever seen your mother so red like she was then."

"I think it was the first time in her life she was at a loss for words."

"She made up some story about God putting him there and telling her when he was ready."

"I never understood it but I pretended I did because I wanted to impress you with my knowledge of babies," Francis says, smiling softly. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Well, I think it's safe to say I know where babies come from now," she says, biting her lip and studying for Francis's reaction. "And I know what it's like to have one inside you."

"But—" he starts, frowning. And then it's suddenly like everything in his life falls into place as his jaw drops, taking in her wide smile. "You're—" he breaks off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Pregnant," she finishes. "I've known for a week now, but I didn't want to get your hopes up, just in case… I've just come from Nostradamus and he says that—"

But he cuts her off with his lips and she grins against him, her fingers tangling in his hair as he pulls her closer. When they break apart, his eyes are crinkling with his smile. He runs his hand through his hair, looking her up and down. His laugh bubbles out contagiously as he places his hands on her flat stomach. It feels so good to laugh for once, to hear his laugh once more.

"We'll have to make a nursery, of course. And it should be near our chambers, in fact. Perhaps the baby can sleep with us for the first months. I want to be there for every moment of her childhood, I don't want to miss any of it. And—"

"Francis, let's wait until I start to show first," she interrupts, feeling warm with his excitement.

"Right, of course," he says, breathless. Then, like he's realized something, he adds, "You'll show!"

_Month Two_

"Nostradamus believes I will start to show soon," she says, lacing her fingers through his. A grin stretches across Francis's face as he moves his other hand under the covers to rest over her abdomen. "Real proof of our child."

"You look so beautiful," he says softly, his thumb rubbing circles on her hand.

"I won't when I'm the size of a horse," she says, rolling her eyes. "And before you protest with whatever compliment you were going to shower me with, you can save it for when I am actually the size of a horse."

She presses her lips to his forehead before crawling out of bed and tying her robe.

"So soon?" Francis says, pouting as he props himself up against the pillows and watches her ring for her maids.

"I may be with child, but I am still a queen," she says, sitting at her vanity and beginning to brush her hair. Francis sighs but nonetheless gets up and wraps his own robe around himself. He approaches the large armoire holding Mary's dresses and opens it, peering inside. "What are you doing?"

"Choosing a dress," he says simply. It's not long before he's laying one out on the chaise and Mary smiles at his choice. It's her rose colored one, with the ruched skirts. "You approve?"

"Of course," she says, dragging his lips down to hers. The maids entering the room—two girls blushing profusely—interrupt them.

"Excuse me, Your Grace, we can come back—" the older one says

"No, it's quite all right, Claire. My apologies," Mary says, standing. Francis steps away to change behind the curtain and Mary's eyes follow him.

"Would you like to wear this one, Your Grace?" Claire asks, smoothing out the pink dress. Mary nods as the other maid, Anna, approaches Mary to help her lace her corset. She helps Mary pull it up and begins to tie the laces with her usual yanking.

But when Mary inhales sharply, her hand flying to her abdomen, Francis's head pokes out from behind the screen.

"Mary?" he asks, his blue eyes full of worry.

"I'm fine," she says stiffly, trying to smile. "It's a little tight."

"It's no tighter than usual, Your Grace," Anna says quietly. "If I make it any looser, it won't support you."

"It's fine, then, you may continue," Mary says but Francis seems to think otherwise. He darts out from behind the screen, not even bothering to put on his shirt. The two girls' faces are flushed as their king makes his way to Mary and takes her hands in his.

"Mary, if it's too tight, we should be careful," he says slowly, very aware of the two girls behind her.

"I'm fine, really," she says. Francis narrows his eyes and fixes her with a look as she rubs his hand soothingly.

Without looking away from Mary, he says to Anna, "Tie my wife's corset looser today."

"But, Your Majesty—" Anna starts.

"Do as I say," he says sternly before pressing his lips to Mary's forehead and going back behind the screen.

"Your Grace, should we…?"

"Do as the king says," Mary complies, a soft smile playing at her lips and she can sense Francis's relief from across the room.

_Month Three_

"So, how are you feeling?" Kenna asks, plopping herself down on Mary and Francis's couch. Mary shrugs as she sits delicately across from her friend, eyeing Francis in the corner, who is seated at their shared desk writing letters as she takes tea with her three friends.

"It's all very exciting that you're starting to show," Greer says, sipping from her cup. Mary smiles and rests her hand over her slightly swelled stomach. "Have you given any thought to names?"

Mary's gaze shifts over to Francis behind Kenna, who has paused in his letter writing. She smiles at his obvious eavesdropping before replying to Greer.

"Not yet," she says, "but I'm partial to James."

She can see Francis stiffen.

"After my father, of course," she adds.

"James is a lovely name," Lola says, smiling. "But what if you have a girl?"

"Oh, we're having a boy," Mary says, waving her hand. Behind Kenna, Francis actually turns this time.

"We don't know what we're having yet," he says pointedly and her friends to turn toward him. Mary rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Francis, I love you, I do. But I do have to challenge you on this," Mary says.

"How could you possibly know the gender of our baby when she hasn't even been born yet?"

"'She?'" Mary repeats. "She? No, we're having a boy, darling."

"Well, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?" Francis says.

"Like Mary's ever been good at waiting," Kenna mutters and Mary shoots her a look while Greer and Lola hide their laughs.

"It's mother's intuition," Mary says simply. "I can feel it."

"Do you talk to our baby as well?" Francis teases. "What does she tell you?"

"Laugh at me all you want, but we'll see who's right when our son is born."

"Walk away now, Francis, or Mary will give birth to a son through sheer force of will," Kenna jokes.

"You three are not helping," she says, glaring at her friends.

"Then we'll take our leave," Greer says, standing. "Do try not to bite each other's head off."

With that, the three ladies leave, Kenna shooting a look that clearly says be careful to Francis before ducking out the door. Francis stands from their desk and walks over to Mary, sitting where Kenna sat minutes before and leans forward.

"Tell me, why are you so sure we're having a son?" Francis asks. Mary suddenly shifts in her chair, her fingers knotting together as her gaze flickers downwards. "Mary?"

"Wishful thinking," she decides after a pause.

"You don't want a girl?" he asks. Mary looks up at him like he's gone insane.

"Do you want a girl?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," he says quickly. "Mary, what's wrong?"

"I thought you wanted a boy," she says.

"I want a baby, I don't care if it's a boy or a girl."

"Not even a little?"

"Well," he pauses and Mary's stomach plunges. He's going to say it and there's a very high chance of his disappointment in six months. "I suppose I'd love a girl that looks just like you. But I don't care what we have, as long as he or she is healthy and beautiful and most importantly, ours," he adds quickly.

"But," Mary starts, biting her lip as she thinks before she adds softly, "But boys are heirs."

Francis leans back, sitting straight now instead of leaning toward her.

"That's what this is about," he says. Mary nods. He moves to sit next to her on the couch, facing her and taking her hands in his as he continues, "Mary, while this baby is very important to both our countries, she's more important to us. For me, she is first and foremost ours. I don't want a baby because I want an heir; I want a baby because I want a family with you. This baby's gender doesn't change that. If we have a girl, then yes, she cannot be queen of France. But she will be so important to me anyway. If we have a boy, he will grow up to rule France and Scotland, but he won't be any more important to me than our daughter. All that matters is that we are together. Is that clear now?"

Mary nods once more and squeezes his hand before leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks and Mary smiles softly as he rubs circles on her hand.

"Much," she says, her hands coming to rest over his on her stomach.

_Month Four_

He's discussing the state of the French-German border when he realizes Mary has not arrived yet. She always makes a point of attending meetings, even since the announcement of her pregnancy. She even said she wanted to talk of the Scottish border today. But they are five minutes into the meeting now and Mary is noticeably absent. None of his advisors have said anything, not that they ever would with their disdain for the power his gives his wife.

Lord Hugo is pointing out the border patrols they already have and other points of weakness when Francis puts his hand out to quiet him. He acquiesces, clenching his jaw as Francis turns to the page by the door.

"Thomas, would you know the whereabouts of my wife?" he says and the page, Thomas, looks up, startled that the king remembered his name.

"No, Your Majesty. Shall I retrieve her from her rooms?" he asks.

Francis pauses, glancing around the room at the waiting nobles.

"That's quite all right," he says. "I can go to her."

The ten or so nobles in the room shift in their seats, exchanging looks.

"I'll be back in a moment. No decisions will be made without me or my wife present," he says sternly before striding out of the room and leaving a group of quite disgruntled nobles behind.

When he reaches their chambers, the two guards stationed outside straighten and one says, "Apologies, Your Grace, but you may want to give the queen her privacy at the moment."

"Why? What's wrong?" Francis asks, a pit forming in his stomach.

"She is currently indisposed," the other says.

"Indisposed? How?" he asks. Neither of the guards responds. "Just let me in, I can talk to her."

"But—"

"Just let me in," he says and the guards step aside. Mary isn't in the room so far as Francis can see when he enters, but the door to their connecting bathroom is open. He walks over to it and looks inside warily.

Within, Mary is bent over a bucket, one maid holding back her hair and the other rubbing her back. She is still wearing her night clothes and she looks smaller somehow, cowering in a bathroom.

"Mary!" Francis exclaims, rushing over to his wife. She's covered in a sheen of sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead as she empties her breakfast into the bucket.

"It's all right," she says shakily, looking up at him. "I'm all right."

"Mary, you do not look all right," he says emphatically, his eyebrows knotting. She opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by another bought of vomiting.

"It is a common symptom of pregnancy, Your Grace," one of the maids says, wiping a towel across Mary's forehead. Francis looks around the room quickly and takes off his doublet, throwing it over a nearby chair. He rolls up the sleeves to his undershirt and runs a hand through his hair.

"Move aside, please," he says to the maid holding back his wife's hair, and she does so dutifully.

"Francis, the meeting—" Mary starts weakly.

"Can wait," he reassures. "What matters is that my wife is not feeling well. When you are feeling better, we can attend it together."

"But the nobles will—"

"Listen to their king," he finishes softly

Mary looks like she wants to protest but she doesn't have it in her to do so. Instead, she lets Francis kneel beside her and hold back her hair, whispering soothingly in her ear.

_Month Five_

Catherine wastes no expense in spoiling her grandchild before they're even born. She sends breakfast to Mary's rooms each morning, making sure her daughter-in-law is never alone should anything go wrong.

"Mary, the m—What is this?" Francis says as he enters their rooms. Their chambers are filled with bustling maids and seamstresses who pause in their movements to bow as he approaches. Mary herself is standing on a small platform, her arms raised above her head while Catherine watches with a stern eye. When Mary flinches, nearly imperceptibly, Catherine quickly dismisses the seamstress with the pins in her mouth and gestures for another to come forward.

"Ah, Francis," his mother says, clasping her hands and beaming at him. "A queen deserves a new wardrobe to accommodate her child, does she not?"

Francis looks to Mary, whose eyes are pleading with him desperately.

"Don't you agree, Mary?" Catherine says, turning to her daughter-in-law.

"Yes, of course, but I have been—"

"See, Francis, your wife is perfectly all right with being pampered like so," Catherine interrupts and Mary fakes an exuberant smile at her husband, who stifles a laugh.

"Perhaps we should give her a rest? She is living for two, after all," Francis says, walking up to Mary and taking her hands in his to help her down. She smiles gratefully as she steps off the platform, Francis's arms going to her hips to steady her.

"I think it's time for the queen's afternoon rest," Francis says, louder this time. Nostradamus suggested that as her pregnancy progresses, Mary should be cognizant of her energy levels, never over-exerting herself. Francis has been almost annoyingly good about it, never letting her stand for too long, taking her on short walks with many breaks and making sure she has the chance to have tea taken to their chambers each afternoon for her daily rest. It started out as sweet, but now that it has been going on for two months, Mary can feel herself becoming restless.

Nonetheless, she is grateful for him as he dismisses the ten or so servants and guides her over to the couch, his hand on her back.

"Thank you," she says when the last of them are gone and Francis sits on the couch, lifting her legs to rest on his lap. "I thought I was about to collapse from standing so long."

"My mother is…ambitious in her love for our child."

"To say the least," Mary scoffs.

"If she ever is too much for you, if anything is wrong, please tell me, Mary. I want to make sure you're always comfortable."

"Of course," she says, leaning forward to stroke his cheek. "Always."

"Now, I was—" Francis breaks off when he sees Mary's hand fly to her mouth, a smile slowly growing. "What?"

"He kicked," she says, tears growing in her eyes as she looks to her husband. "The baby, he kicked."

This time Francis doesn't protest at her gender choice and instead quickly takes Mary's legs off his lap so he can move closer to her, putting his hands over hers to rest on her stomach. Mary bites her lip as she looks up at him, taking her hands away so he can feel their baby. A look of surprise comes over his face a moment later, his blue eyes widening.

"I felt it," he says in awe. "I felt our baby."

"Our baby," Mary says, covering her mouth to hold back her laughter and Francis's face seems to crack open with his smile, his eyes crinkling.

_Month Six_

"Please not today, Francis. Just one break won't matter," Mary says, pouting from her place on the couch.

"Nostradamus says you need to keep moving to stay healthy, Mary. This is what is best for the baby," he replies.

"One day without a walk won't hurt anyone," she says but Francis is looking at her with those eyes and she imagines the same eyes looking up at her, her skirts clutched in a tiny hand as their child begs to be picked up. "Fine, fine. You win."

Francis beams and she can't bring herself to regret heaving herself up and taking his offered arm. Her arm looped through his, Mary struggles to make it even outside to the gardens. As always, a maid and two guards trail behind them slowly.

"How are you feeling?" Francis asks as he caresses her hand slowly.

"Well, I'm the size of a warship and I'm only going to get bigger, my husband forces me to go on walks even though my feet are swollen, this baby of ours won't stop kicking in the middle of the night and—"

By the time Mary gets to her last words, they've stopped walking and Francis interrupts her with his lips.

"What was that for?" she asks, smiling as he pulls away.

"I love you," he says simply.

"Even when I'm the size of a warship and I never run out of things to complain about?"

"Yes. And I love you that you glow when you talk about our baby, when you tell me she is kicking again, when you wake me up in the middle of the night with all your kicking, when you make me get your favorite biscuits from the kitchen at sunrise, when you suggest baby names in the middle of a conversation, when you insist on attending every council meeting even when you are with child. Every moment of every day, I love you."

Mary looks away, blinking hard.

"What's wrong? Did I say something? Is the baby all right?" Francis says worriedly, taking both her hands in his. Mary lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, wiping her tears away.

"Of course, we're both fine," she says, and she is, she feels more than fine with Francis's careful touches and soft words. She feels so undeserving of his love sometimes, with his rescheduled meetings for her and constant cravings answered to. And as he kisses her hand quickly and they begin their walk back to the castle, Mary feels warmer than she ever has, his hand laced with hers, the sun flickering through the trees and her hand placed over her stomach.

_Month Seven_

"Francis, I can't see a thing," Mary sighs, blindly waving her hands around.

"That's the point," her husband replies, his arms snaking around her waist. They're standing at the bottom of one of the castle's many stairwells and a blindfold is drawn around Mary's head. One hand is resting on her now enormous abdomen, the other clutching Francis's tightly.

"This cannot possibly be safe," she says as he guides her to the steps.

"Don't worry," Francis says softly in her ear. "I'll never let go."

Mary purses her lips but says no more as he tells her to step upwards. The first flight goes well and Francis's support makes her feel as though the blindfold is insignificant. It's only at the second flight that she begins to feel winded and Francis notices. Nostradamus had told him that in the last months of pregnancy, Mary would get tired more easily and to only let her rest. To account for this, he had placed a chair on every other floor for her to rest at.

"Here, sit down," he says, putting her hand on the chair and helping her sit.

"How did you know there would be a chair?" she asks as she sits.

"I put it there," he says and she can hear the bashful tone in his voice. "I knew you would feel tired."

"Francis…" she says, wishing she could see him through the blindfold. Instead, she reaches for him, cupping his cheek and pulling his lips down to hers. When they pull apart, she adds, "You're too kind to me."

"I have a family to watch after," he says, putting his hands on her stomach.

"Did you—?" she starts to ask.

"Yes," he replies, knowing what she is asking before she even finishes the question. The sensation of their baby kicking never fails to render Francis speechless. They sit for a little while longer before Mary begins to get impatient and after Francis makes sure she's really all right to walk again, he helps her up and takes her up the next flight of stairs. The remainder of their trip passes the same way, up the next four flights of stairs and when they get to the top, Mary is barely winded with all their breaks.

"Where are we, anyway?" she asks as he opens the door before them. Francis doesn't respond, only taking off the blindfold and letting Mary see for herself.

They're standing in a sun-drenched room with large windows and white flowing shades. A rocking chair cluttered with pillows sits in the corner and there's a window seat with stuffed bears on it. In one corner, a large toy box sits, opened so that you can see the toy soldiers and dragons within. There is a large armoire in one corner with a rocking horse next to it. Across from the rocking chair sits a white crib, a soft white blanket with light blue trim folded atop it.

"Francis, you didn't…" Mary says, her hand flying to her mouth.

"I thought our baby deserved the best," he says, his eyes fixed on her. "Do you like it?"

"Like it? I love it," she breathes as she looks around the very familiar room. "And in my old rooms too."

"I thought you would enjoy that," he says, a smile gracing his lips.

"But your swords—"

"Have been moved to another room. We can't have the baby near them," he says.

"This was your escape, though."

"I don't need an escape anymore. Not when I have both of you."

She beams at him before turning to look at the room and leaning back into him, his arms wrapping around her torso from behind.

_Month Eight_

Mary counts herself lucky if she wakes up less than three times a night. The baby seems to think that the right time to beat out a symphony inside his mother is the second the sun goes down. And of course whenever one of her ladies asks to feel him, he is irritatingly silent and unmoving.

She is eight months pregnant, tired, sore and lying in bed at midnight, staring at the canopy. Francis is fast asleep beside her, of course, peaceful as ever while Mary cannot seem to stop twisting and turning, begging their child to grant her just a few hours of rest. Apparently, it's too early to be asking a baby such things and expecting him to respond, but nonetheless Mary finds herself with her hands on her large abdomen, praying for a moment of peace.

Some nights it feels like minutes and other nights it feels like hours. Tonight, she feels as though she only slept for minutes before their baby woke her. Part of her wonders if she should slip out of bed and write letters to her mother and advisors back in Scotland then sleep during the day when she has time. But getting up would surely wake Francis and he would only force her to go back to sleep, telling her she needed rest.

It seems that Francis was going to wake up anyway because she can feel his arms wrapping around her.

"You're awake," he says softly, his voice thick with sleep.

"Someone's a bit restless," she replies, her hands placed on her stomach. Francis moves his own hands to her stomach and rubs it slowly.

"Oh, baby, why won't you let your maman sleep? Could you do that for me?" he whispers and through her exhaustion, Mary smiles—Francis speaking to their baby has become a regular occurrence, as are her accompanied smiles. "She's so tired, love. And she loves you so very much. She is going to bring you into this world, all by herself. And she is going to be the first to hold you in her arms and she will show you how to stand on two legs and walk and she will teach you how to speak and how to read, how to braid hair and ride horses. But before all that, she needs this sleep. Could you give it to her?"

When Francis looks up, Mary's eyes are closed, her light smile remaining as she sleeps. He smiles, whispers a small, "Thank you," and folds his body around hers once more.

* * *

><p>When Mary wakes, she is cold. She is covered in a layer of sweat and the many covers atop their bed do nothing to warm her. She shivers first, pulling the covers over her shoulders more.<p>

And then she feels it.

It's a stab of pain deep within her and suddenly the sheets are not drenched with sweat, but blood. She shoots up in bed, her hands clutching her stomach and she doesn't begin to cry, not yet, because the pain is numbing her and all she can see is the blood blossoming as it spreads across the fabric.

Too soon, too soon, too soon.

It runs through her head like a mantra. Nostradamus told her nine months, always nine months. Wait nine months and your baby will be in your arms. But it is eight months; they've been counting carefully, week by week. It is eight months and oh God, the blood is everywhere. She wants to open her mouth to scream but the pain holds her back, pinning her mouth shut. She can't even move to wake Francis as the hot tears spill out of her eyes.

Too soon, too soon, too soon.

The pain paralyzes her, taking over everything in her body. Relief and happiness are replaced by fear and hurt. It all feels so new, living for two and eating for two and walking for two but suddenly it's all falling away from her, every dream she held for the past eight months slipping away and she can't do anything to stop it. She wants to grab onto them, hold them close and keep them but they keep drifting away with each wave of pain. She feels the world spinning around her, the room blurring in her tears.

Too soon, too soon, too soon.

"Mary?" Francis's soft voice breaks the verse in her head. Calm. He's too calm. "Mary, are you all right?"

She wants to call out to him but all she can do is open her mouth to try and fail to scream. He's right beside her, so close she can touch and…

"Mary, it's all right, come back to me." His soft voice slowly tugs her closer, back to earth. "Shhh, it's all right, I'm here."

And suddenly he is there, brushing hair out of her eyes, worriedly squeezing her hand. She shoots up in bed, her eyes springing open and looking around frantically. Francis is looking at her, his eyes pleading with hers to come back to him, worry lines stretched along his forehead.

"What's wrong, tell me what's wrong." His voice is so much closer now and she can feel his chest rising and falling. "It was just a dream, you're here now."

"I—" she starts. "What happened?"

"You were screaming," he says, his voice shaky. He's afraid, she realizes, afraid for her, afraid for the baby.

The baby.

Her hands fly to her stomach, still mercifully large and the sheets are suddenly dry, the pain drifting away like the tide receding from the beach. Except it doesn't come back. A soft kick reminds her of the baby's presence and she feels her body loosen, relief flooding through her veins.

"You sounded like you were in pain, and you were yelling 'too soon,' you kept yelling 'too soon.'" Her husband is biting his lip as he looks at her, her breathing finally slowing.

"I'm all right, I'm fine now," she says, closing her eyes and relishing the feeling of his arms around her. She rests her head on his shoulder, too tired to support herself. Francis begins to rub circles on her back slowly and she can feel her world becoming more stable.

"Do you want to—"

"No," she says quickly. "Perhaps later, but not now."

He nods understandingly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. She settles back into their bed, her head resting on the pillow one more. Francis's arms wind around her, pulling her close to him.

"Better?" he asks softly in her ear and she nods, her panic finally subsided now she is secure with her family.

_Month Nine_

Francis skids across the stones, halting before the doors.

"Would you care to explain why no one thought to tell me that my wife is giving birth to our child?" he snaps at the guards and page standing at the door.

"No one wanted to interrupt you, Majesty," the page says, staring at his shoes very intently.

"Interrupt me?" he fumes, running a hand through his curls. "Well, I can assure you nothing could be so important that I would not attend the birth of my child. So next time you think you can decide what warrants interruption and what doesn't, think a little harder."

The men before him shift uncomfortably but stay silent.

"And after all that, you are still not going to let me in?" he says, laughing without humor as he throws his hands in the air. The guards move clumsily aside as the page nearly trips over his feet to get out of the way. Francis propels himself forward, the gravity of the situation hitting him quite suddenly. Mary is inside, having their child. Their child. After all this time, they are so close. He feels as though everyone in the vicinity should be able to hear his heart slamming against his chest. His chest heaves and he opens the door.

"I'm going to kill you," is the first thing Francis hears when he enters the room. The second thing he hears is a blood-curdling scream coming from the bed.

One of the midwives looks at him with wide eyes, her hand trapped in Mary's death grip. Mary is sitting upright on the bed, her hair plastered to her shining forehead, midwives surrounding her. Her face is bright red in concentration and he can see the welling tears as she screws her face into a scream.

"Your Grace, you shouldn't—" one of the older midwives starts, but Francis doesn't let her finish.

"I am going to be here for my child's birth, I am going to stay in this room and I don't care what you say decorum or propriety is," he says, running over to the bed. The midwife looks as though she wants to protest but she doesn't, instead moving aside so Francis can take her place. Mary latches onto him quickly, grabbing his hand and squeezing it harder than he thought possible.

"It's all right, I'm here, love, I'm here," he says as he brushes a lock of hair out of her face.

"No, it is not all right, you bastard!" she snaps, her face screwing in pain.

"Just relax, Your Grace," the other midwife says, wiping Mary's brow with a towel.

"Relax?" she asks. "I'm giving birth to a bloody baby!"

"I need you to concentrate on pushing," the midwife says, surprisingly calm considering her queen is currently screaming bloody murder. Francis commends her for her bravery, as he knows firsthand the extent of Mary's anger.

"I am!" Mary yells and it cuts off into a scream a moment later as she pushes particularly hard. Francis winces at her sweaty hand locked around his and bites his lip. He can't show her that her grip is uncomfortable, not when she herself is going through such pain.

He's not sure how long they're in that room with Mary screaming so loud he's sure all of France can hear but it seems that quite suddenly, sunlight is coming through the windows and someone other Mary is screaming in the castle.

Mary collapses onto the bed as their child's first cry breaks the silence and Francis can feel his legs nearly buckle. One minute, Mary was screaming in pain and the next, the midwife is looking up at him, holding a small bundle.

"Is—" Mary starts, her voice soft. "Is he all right?"

"Yes, Your Grace," the midwife says. "Your daughter is most certainly all right."

"A daughter?" Francis breaths, his eyes glued to the bundle. "Our daughter."

"Our daughter," Mary repeats, her voice weak.

"Would you like to hold her, Your Grace?" the midwife asks, looking to Francis, who is standing motionless beside the bed.

"I—" he starts, "No, Mary should first."

The midwife smiles at him and nods, gesturing for Mary to sit up. She does so and puts her arms out for their daughter. Francis watches her closely as she settles into her mother's arms, her eyes fluttering closed and her wails quieting. A tuft of brown curls sticks out of the blanket and a smile ghosts across Mary's lips as she looks down. Francis feels the sudden urge to sit down and he does so on the edge of the bed, putting his arm around his wife. His whole body suddenly feels very fragile as he looks down at his wife and daughter. So much of his world is put into those tiny hands and he can feel his eyes begin to well with tears.

"I shall take my leave, Your Majesties," the midwife says, but Francis and Mary barely look up as they gaze down at their daughter.

"Anne," he says softly, barely hesitating. Mary looks up at him for the first time since she gave birth to their daughter. There are several beats of silence where they just stare at each other, a silent agreement between them. And then, in unison, they look back at their daughter.

"Anne," Mary says, as if she's testing the name on her tongue. She runs her thumb down her cheek, a faint smile growing on her face. "She has your eyes."


End file.
